


The Smoke and the Nightmare

by PawPunk



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Delusions, Fire, Gen, Implied abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, lord of the flies epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PawPunk/pseuds/PawPunk
Summary: You can take the boy out of the island, but you can't take the island out of the boy.





	The Smoke and the Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I didn't just sit down and write this fic one day
> 
> We got an assignment in English class to write an additional chapter for LOTF and I wanted to post mine
> 
> Trigger warnings for this fic are: fire/ arson and implied abuse of a mentally ill person

The flames leapt and hissed like a wildcat, pouncing upon the helpless firewood. Brown turned to black, then ashy whitish-grey as the logs crumbled into a fine powder. Ralph crept forwards, the rough stone floor scraping his knees, until he could almost feel the flames burning his arms and legs. The memory of the roasted pig popped into his mind, and he imagined the fat on his arms and face melting and dripping onto the ground. 

“Ralph, can you hear me?” He jumped to his feet, spinning around. His father sat far from the fireplace, a lamp providing the light he read by. Ralph tried to scrutinize his face, but compared to the brightness of the fire his father’s face was dark.

“I can.” He settled back down in front of the fire, this time facing away. He squinted until the bluish green lights stopped clouding his vision and his father’s face became clear. The look on his face wasn’t exactly worried--there were other emotions mixed in, like grief and anger and disappointment.

“I was thinking I might teach you how to play chess,” his father said, standing from the chair. Ralph shrunk back. His father placed a large, flat box in front of him and poured the little wooden men out onto the carpet. 

“First, I’ll show you how to set up the board. The pawns go in front. They’re the weakest.” Ralph watched as his father lined the chess pieces up correctly. First came the pawns, with their big heads and thin bodies, then behind them the knights and bishops and rooks, all protecting the king and queen.

“Now you try.” Ralph looked at his father’s orderly soldiers, marbled red and black. His eyes traveled to his own pieces, pale and jumbled on the floor. 

“No thanks,” Ralph whispered, trying to ignore the disappointment in his father’s eyes. “I think I’ll go to bed now.” He brushed the red soldiers into the chess box before he stood and tiptoed to his room.

Ralph didn’t turn the light on. He walked over to the open window and closed it, drawing the curtains to block out the pink light of sunset. He padded over to his bed, pushing the covers aside and crawling onto the mattress. Ralph turned over, facing the door. He was safe here, he reminded himself. Just fall asleep, you’re safe here. Just fall asleep…

Ralph threw the covers off. The darkness was absolute, unbroken by a single star. He waved his hands in front of his face, but saw nothing. Something fluttered in his mind. This was bad, this was bad, but why…

“Smoke,” Ralph hissed, his lips barely moving in the blackness. He sat up and placed a hand on the wall. Stumbling, he felt his way to the door and opened it. A faint, blue light lit the house, and Ralph crept into the living room. A beam of moonlight shone through the window, onto the darkened fireplace. 

_ They let the fire out _ , Ralph thought.  _ They let the fire out, how will anyone know to rescue us _ ? He scampered across the thin carpet to kneel before the fireplace and plunge his hands into the ashes. His hand smarted against something hot, and Ralph yanked it out. He sucked on the burn and prodded the ashes with the fire iron. 

Even in the bright moonlight, he could see a faint red light smoldering on a buried piece of kindling. He blew gently on the light, and it grew brighter. The red dot spread across the stick. Ralph quickly sucked in another breath and blew again. He dug through the ashes, but the other sticks snapped and crumbled in his hand. He frantically fanned the red dot, but it was shrinking. Finally, the light disappeared in a wisp of smoke.

Ralph stifled a cry. The sun was down, and Jack had Piggy’s specs anyway, so the only way to get fire back would be to take some. He shakily stood, preparing to find a place to hide for the night, but something on the mantelpiece caught his eye. A matchbox! Ralph snatched it up and opened it. A few tiny matchsticks rolled around in the mostly empty container. He would have to make these count.

Ralph crouched down by the fireplace, then remembered how little smoke the dry logs stacked in the corner made. If he wanted to be found, he needed green wood. Ralph glanced out the window. The hill outside their house had a small copse of young trees, and it had the advantage of being high up. Ralph gathered an armful of dry kindling, stuffed the matchbox into his pocket, and tiptoed out of the house.

The grass outside the house was wet. Ralph walked slowly, trying not to slip or bump into anything. As he climbed the muddy slope, he held a hand out, grasping at trees for support. The top of the hill was sheltered slightly from the dew by trees. Ralph set down his kindling on a patch of dry dirt. 

Reaching up, he yanked a handful of dry leaves from a tree above him. He threw the leaves to the forest floor and turned his gaze to the new, green branches of the young trees. Fumbling in the dark, he grasped and yanked the branches down, adding them to his growing pile of green wood.

Finally satisfied, Ralph knelt by the wood. He scraped his kindling into a pile, then withdrew a single match from his pocket. He struck the match and held it to a twig. The dry wood caught easily, and the flame quickly spread to the rest of the kindling.

_ Take that, Jack Merridew _ , Ralph thought. He threw a green branch into the fire. The flames licked around it, then consumed the wood. Ralph could smell the limb burning, and when he looked up a faint wisp of smoke climbed towards the moon. He scooped more green wood up and dumped it unceremoniously onto the pyre. The flame blazed, lighting the whole clearing. 

Ralph gazed at the fire. The green wood slowly turned black, and Ralph stood. He began snapping still more limbs off the trees, until the ragged stumps of branches lined the clearing. He tossed them all into the fire. It snapped in appreciation, and Ralph relished the sound. He dragged some larger fallen branches in as well, and the fire quieted down, trying to light the larger logs.

Ralph’s head shot up. He could hear… something. The fire made it hard to tell. Stepping slightly out of the warm circle of firelight, Ralph cocked his head, listening. The sound was clearer now--footsteps. Walking up the hill was a figure, hulking and tilted strangely to one side. Ralph saw a glint of devilish orange in its eyes.

Barely suppressing a cry, Ralph scurried back to his fire. He pulled a branch out of the blaze and held it in the direction of the Beast. He waited, and the footsteps grew louder, and the fire at the tip of his stick burned closer to his hand. Finally, when Ralph could just feel the heat of the flame on his hand, the Beast walked into the clearing.

“HIYA!” Ralph screamed. He leaped at the Beast, jabbing its stomach with his stick. The half burned branch snapped easily in two, and the Beast looked down at him.

“Ralph?” said his father. He peered over Ralph’s head to look at the fire. The orange light glinted off his glasses. “What’s going on here? Did you make this?”

“I did.” Ralph tossed his useless stick to the ground. His father lifted the heavy water bucket in one hand, walking over to Ralph’s fire.

“You know it isn’t safe to start fires, especially at night.” Ralph’s father raised the bucket over the fire.

“No!” Ralph launched himself at his father, attempting to hold the bucket up from the bottom. “Stop it, stop it, don’t you want to be rescued?” His father wrenched the bucket away from him and tossed the water violently onto the blaze. The fire hissed as the coldness hit it, then was finally silenced. The clearing turned pitch black and silent.

Then Ralph began to cry. He swallowed, as if to keep the tears in, and fumbled in his pocket for a second match. Someone was calling his name, but they could talk to him another time. Right now, he had to start the fire, what if a ship was passing, he had to--

“ _ Ralph _ .” A heavy hand clapped on Ralph’s shoulder, and he jumped. His father held a lamp, barely a firefly in comparison to the roaring blaze. “Ralph, you don’t need to start any more fires. You’ve  _ been rescued _ , remember?” Ralph’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he glanced around the clearing. Sure enough, the woods were thin and cold, nothing like the hot, impenetrable jungle.

“Alright.” Ralph followed his father back to the house. He washed the dirt off his feet and knees, and crawled back into bed.

“Sleep well, Ralph. I love you.” His father clicked off the light, and Ralph curled up under his covers. The door shut, and Ralph was safe. As he drifted off, Ralph heard a key turn in a lock.


End file.
